17 November 2007 - Tiwi Bombers trip
(No pictures with this one, I didn't have my phone with me..)
The last couple of days have been indicative of the disorganisation I work with:
- Told them Tuesday that I'd need Friday and Saturday off, as I'd run out of duty
- Was called Thursday night to do a Friday flight. Couldn't do it.
- Was called Friday night to do a Saturday night flight. Nobody else could. Rescheduled my life to assist.
- Now get Sunday off, as part of the negotiatating process...
So today I found myself, due to others disorganisation, doing a couple of flights I wasn't expecting. This is how it worked:
Odd as it seems, it's the football season up here in Darwin. They don't play football at the same time as they do down South because that coincides with their 'dry' period, and that's when they play cricket. Similarly, when cricket is played during the Southern summer, it's the 'wet season' up here, and perfect for football, soft grounds, greener grass, etc. This year there is a new team in the Darwin competition, The 'Tiwi Bombers', a team made up of (generally indigenous) footballers from the three main communities on the Tiwi islands; Ngnu (Bathurst Island), Pirlangimpi (Garden Point) and Milikapiti (Snake Bay). Because we have a sister company that does regular flights to the islands, and a status somehow as one of the 'official sponsors' of the team, we ferry the team home at the end of every game, scheduled, due to the logistics of moving the players, every Saturday night.
It's a four plane departure to move all the players, the makeup usually comprised of a Chieftain or two, and a Cessna C402 or three, depending on availability of planes and pilots. Tonight, due to the disorganisation of our operations team, and other matters, I got the last minute call to pilot one of the planes.
But I'm a step ahead of the story, because there's a catch. Due to a company requirement to have a minimum period of ten hours 'supervised flying' on a new plane when you transition to it, and due to me not at that time meeting those requirements, I need to do another flight before I can pilot the evening footballers run by myself. So it is that I find myself getting ready at 2pm for a 4pm flight with another pilot, to finish my 'supervised flying' time.
This afternoon run, though necessary, is also beneficial. I've not flown this bigger plane for a couple of weeks and, as is often the case, need a refresher just to remember where the switches are, what happens at certain speeds, how things 'look' through the front window, etc. Any plane that I've flown alot, I can hop back into without much difficulty, but for a plane I've not flown much, things take a little remembering. Also, the 4pm flight is to the same place as the 8pm flight, so it serves a little as a reversal of what will come later.
I arrive at the airport at 2:30 to be greeted by the sight of a thunderstorm brewing in the not too distant East. Certainly not unexpected at this time of year, and almost a given as we have had them pretty much every afternoon for the last few weeks, but this one looks particularly ominous. I've heard thunderstorm energy described relative to Atomic bomb blasts, and this one certainly looks like just that. A billowing, white mushroom that grows as I look at it. Dred.
A few years ago their was a 'notable' accident in Tasmania that had, to briefly summarise, a pilot with little experience in bigger planes, a full load or rowdy football supporters, in difficult weather, flying into the ground. I have had that in mind since I got the call for the job the previous evening. I look again at the thunderstorm, bigger by the second.
In my favor are a few things. I have little time in this plane, but consider this one to actually be a little easier than the one I have been flying in. The footballers I'm told will be civilised, or I'll refuse them. I have a short flight only, and access to weather radar on the internet, a considerable resource. Most of all, I'm aware of the precedence set by the Tasmanian incident, having it in my mind keeps me open to the possibilities.
I meet with the other pilot at 3:15 and discuss the flight, inspect the plane. With 30 minutes before departure, the blackest, thickest roll cloud I have ever seen arrives at the airport, indicating the storm front is here. About 3:30, the rain arrives in sheets.
So we sit tight, not going anywhere, and have the full support of our passengers, who are also pleased to be told that we will be waiting. There's something about passengers, that they always assume that we pilots are just 'going anyway', regardless of the hazards, obvious or not. If they ever consider that it's also our neck we are also risking, our life on the line, I've never been told. The other pilot and I sit tight and watch the colours pass on the weather radar. The temperature drops from 34 to about 23, and anticipating loading cargo, I put on my 'dry as a bone', the first time I've taken it from my locker since March.
The passing of the storm is a relief. On the ground, you have options, and limitless time, to avoid it. In the air, the choices are fewer, limited by the fuel in your tanks and the equipment on board the plane. Also, the radar and the sheeting rain indicates that though it's a big storm, it appears to be the only one about, so once it's left, I have one less thing to worry about.
The 4pm flight departs at 4:30, and with the exception of a couple of small things I need to brush up on, goes well. It's a great plane, with perhaps the only minor quirk being that when in cruise with everything 'tuned up', the large plastic glare shield over the instrument vibrates wildly, seemingly at whatever frequency results from being between the two engines. Disconcerting, but as it reminds you the engines are still running, its also reassuring.
Back from the first trip, I have time to wind down and have a quick dinner , Sushi made earlier in the day, and another check of the radar. Clear. Beaut.
Three of us pilots gather at the evening departure point as it gets dark, one pilot still missing, but presumably about somewhere. If not, I'll be the one doing the second trip in his place, as the other two pilots have flights tomorrow, and the combination of late return tonight and early departure tomorrow prevents them from going any later than scheduled. Extra fuel is needed for tonight's trip, just a little more in the tanks to be legal as the forecast says there is still a chance of delays due thunderstorms. It's a bit of a chore, moving the plane to the fuel bowser now that the refuelers have finish for the day, and the heat and humidity have returned after the storm removed them earlier.
On que, at 8 o'clock, the bus with football team arrives. Fortunately we have some assistance from another person doing the check-in, so we wait further until that's done on our behalf. Having someone organising passengers, establishing manifests with names, weights, destinations, saves us the trouble, and no doubt makes for a smoother process - having one person in charge instead of 3 pilots figure things out.
Just as it looks like the other pilot will not show, he does, so I'm relieved of the need to do the extra flight, which would have meant getting home in the early hours of the morning.
From here, things go smooth. The passengers are all cooperative, except for the one that queue jumped and tried to hop on the other plane, the weather has eased, and so has my tension. I take my time going through the normal checks prior to departure, then blast off into the blackness.
And when I say blackness, that's exactly what it is. From the initial darkness of the airport, there's noting else for the next 18 minutes, save for some lightning flashes well out to my side, to the East. There are no night lights, no stars, no moon, no reflections off the water. I have the cockpit lights in front of me, and tail beacon of the proceeding plane 5 miles in front, but that's it. Tonight, with the wind where it is, we're using the long runway from the mid point, not full length, and departing straight over the water, so the process is to get the plane to about 90kts (say 160 kph) and raise the nose to fly, and in doing so obscure whatever ground lights you may have been able to use. Eyes straight to the instrument panel. Climb to 2000ft. That's all I'll describe of the departure, it's something you have to experience to understand. Even being there as a passenger doesn't count. You have to fly it to understand it.
The first time I did this - back on about the a few months ago - I came away with the impression that 2000ft was simply not high enough for a night flight, when you can't see what's below. It's purely physociological of course, because you're not doing anything you don't do in the daytime, but that's how it feels.
To be completed!
